


Snow

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2012 [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Apocalypse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 22:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only light is the snow-filled television screen, and the world is slowly dying alongside it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Because I am lazy, I’m titling the “drabbles” with the prompt I was given. Today’s prompt is from . I don’t think she was anticipating something quite like this, though it might be appropriate for today. (Hon, my offer to write another still stands.) Not beta’ed or Brit-Picked; all comments and nit-picking welcomed.

The only light is the snow-filled television screen, the only sound the buzzing static, low and incessant, a bit like metallic bees looking for the flowers they can’t find. John’s eyes are closed, his head on the armrest, one arm across his chest as if to hold himself in. One arm has fallen from the sofa, his fingers resting on the floor. 

Sherlock stands in the doorway and holds his breath. He won’t breathe until he sees John’s chest rise and fall. 

John is utterly still. 

The television flickers; the world outside jumps and starts in silence. Sherlock can feel the world strain under his feet, and he should go, get out of 221 before the earthquakes find him (Europe is a wasteland, but then it always was). He’s filled the knapsack with bottled water, just as John had said to do. He’s filled another with whatever portable food they had on hand. The water rests on his back, the straps digging into his shoulders, drawing him back out of the flat, urging him to make his escape to somewhere, anywhere. 

Sherlock waits for John to breathe. 

John is utterly still. 

This is the end of the world, then. Whether it’s the end of what the world has known, and something else will grow in its place, Sherlock doesn’t know. Behold the ancient humans, a mysterious race who were too preoccupied with something called the internet and small creatures known as kittens, not to mention something more esoteric called “porn”. Sherlock can only imagine the museums dedicated to their study. Or perhaps the world is truly ending, and nothing will exist when the last of them die out – a few weeks? Months? Could some of them last a year? Sherlock had been curious to find out, and John had called him mad, told him off for being insensitive, thrown himself on the sofa and turned on the telly, even though the telly had stopped broadcasting days before. 

Sherlock holds his breath, feels his chest start to hurt, his head begin to spin. 

John is utterly still. 

Neither of them have been sick, but then neither had Molly or Mycroft or anyone else. People simply…stopped. They sit down, they lean against a wall, they lie down intending to rest for just a moment, and they never rise again. 

The knapsack of water pulls Sherlock to the ground. His fingers dig against the wood, the thin layer of dust from the sandstorms grainy against his skin. Sandstorms in London! The world really is ending. John doesn’t move. Sherlock is not sure he wants to see the end of the world anymore. 

Everyone is dying. Everyone is already dead. 

Somewhere outside, a voice calls his name. 

But Sherlock doesn’t move again. His head rests against the doorjamb, and his chest is utterly still.


End file.
